


just cut the stupid cake

by shineyma



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not Eliot's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just cut the stupid cake

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is my first attempt at Leverage fic (long time watcher, first time writer!), so please do be gentle!
> 
> Title from Arrogant Worms' _The Happy Happy Birthday Song_. Thanks for reading!

_“Okay, so Yerger’s heavy into coincidences—and I mean_ heavy _. Dude doesn’t make a single decision without a ‘sign from fate’ to show him the way. Lucky for us, we just so happen to have one.”_

_“A sign from fate?”_

_“A coincidence. So, Eliot. How do you feel about birthday spectacles?”_

 

 

In a stroke of luck, the restaurant has some serious high-quality surveillance cameras, which means Alec gets a _great_ view of the strained smile on Eliot’s face when Sophie tells the server it’s his birthday.

“It’s really not,” Eliot—currently working under the alias Daniel Tucker, birthday 08/12/none-of-your-damned-business—tells the woman.

“Oh, honey,” Sophie trills, slapping his arm affectionately. Eliot’s eye is getting that twitch that always happens whenever Sophie puts on a Southern Belle persona, and Alec cackles quietly to himself. “Don’t be so shy! I _know_ you want a free slice of that _delicious_ looking cake.”

“I’d be glad to get some for you,” the waitress assures him—a little _too_ eagerly. Alec absolutely caught the deliberate way she was leaning over Eliot’s arm earlier, and he both totally understands and really resents it. There _must_ be something in Eliot’s shampoo, that happens to him literally _everywhere he goes_. “But I will need to check your ID, first.”

“No, thank—”

“Honey.” Sophie pouts prettily at him. “Please.”

Alec’s pretty sure the sigh Eliot gives isn’t even a little bit fake; he was definitely not down with this plan. He had lots of things to say about drawing attention and leaving things to chance and contingencies and a whole bunch of other hitter-talk that mostly boiled down to _I don’t want anyone to sing me happy birthday ever, especially not in a public place_.

And knowing that he’s hating _every single second_ of it makes it that much sweeter to watch all the servers at the cheap Italian restaurant gather around to loudly sing Eliot a catchy yet cringe-worthy birthday song.

Even better, it also gets Quentin Yerger—current mark, birthday _also_ August 12 th—to approach Eliot for conversation, since “it must be a _sign_ ” that two men with the same birthday are eating in the same restaurant. The plan worked, which means Eliot can’t justify hitting Alec for suggesting it.

Life is good.

 

 

Okay, so, Alec might’ve been a bit hasty with the whole not-getting-punched relief, because somewhere between the mark’s house and Nate’s apartment, Parker manages to find a party hat. A sparkly, pink and yellow, obnoxiously cheerful party hat that she plops on Eliot’s head with a bright, “Happy birthday!” the second he walks in.

Because it’s Parker, Eliot actually waits until she puts it on his head before ripping it off, instead of breaking her hand the second he sees it coming—which is what would happen to literally _anyone_ else.

“It’s not my birthday,” he says, dropping the hat on the counter with a level three ( _I can kill you in twenty different ways with only my left pinky, don’t test me_ ) glare.

Alec tries to blend into the furniture. Nothing to see here, nope.

Parker frowns at Eliot. “Yes, it is. You got cake.” She leans in close—way close—eyebrows scrunching in concern. “Did you hit your head again?”

“No,” he says. “It’s not _my_ birthday, it’s Daniel Tucker’s. The cake was for the con.”

 _Alec_ never gets cake for the con, but he comforts himself with the reminder that the cake came with a side of public humiliation—and that he absolutely saved the video. The memory of the look on Eliot’s face when the redheaded waitress pulled him to his feet and forced him to dance—not to mention the dance itself—will remain fresh and clear for all of Alec’s days.

Still, that looked like some good cake.

“If Alice is me, then Daniel is you,” Parker says, with the same kind of simple but devastating logic often found in small children. “That makes it your birthday.” She picks the hat up and drops it on Eliot’s head again. “Happy birthday.”

Eliot’s stuck, and he definitely knows it. He can’t keep arguing that it’s not his birthday without underlining the fact that Daniel Tucker isn’t really him, and that puts his whole support-Parker’s-Peggy-friendship thing at risk. He’s trapped by his own good intentions.

It’s pretty hilarious—at least until Eliot’s level three glare swings to Alec and bumps up to a level six ( _I’m not gonna need to hide your body ‘cause there won’t be anything left of you_ ).

Alec gulps and sinks lower on the couch, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV screen like he doesn’t notice the death rays Eliot’s shooting at him. Not easy; there’s a chance his skin is starting to smoke.

“I’m not wearin’ a damn hat,” Eliot growls, a little lamely, and then stomps away.

Alec breathes a sigh of relief when Eliot doesn’t stop to inflict violence on him. There’s still a _chance_ he’s gonna get punched, but he figures if it’s not happening right away, it’s not as likely.

Right?

 

 

A few hours later, Alec is forced to confront the fact that the rest of his team might _want_ him to get punched. Just when things are looking good—con on schedule, mark on the hook, no violence from Eliot—Nate comes back from the temporary office they set up across town and places a neatly wrapped present in front of Eliot.

“Happy birthday,” he says easily, like he’s unaware of—or just _doesn’t care about_ —the risk that the blue ribbon around the gift might soon find itself wrapped around Alec’s _windpipe_.

Eliot’s hand tightens around the beer he’s holding, and Alec can almost _hear_ it begging for mercy. He cringes in sympathy, earning a placid smile from Nate.

“It’s _not my birthday_ ,” Eliot bites out.

“No,” Nate agrees, and nudges the present closer to him. “Happy birthday.”

With that, he ambles away. Eliot’s level eight ( _I might kill all the people you love once I’m done with you_ ) glare moves slowly from Nate’s back to the present and then to Alec.

“You know what?” Alec asks hastily, jumping to his feet. “I just remembered, Lucille’s been making this weird noise—” A complete lie, and he says a silent apology to her for besmirching her good name, but he figures she doesn’t want him dead any more than he wants to _be_ dead, so she’ll probably forgive him. “—that I’ve been meaning to get checked out. So I’m gonna…do that. Bye.”

He beats a quick retreat, and if anyone wants to complain about him leaving his post when he’s supposed to be monitoring comms, they can take it up with their own damn selves. _He’s_ not the one drawing this birthday joke out like a running gag on _Community_.

(But even if his team apparently wants _him_ dead, he can’t totally abandon _them_ , so he parks Lucille in a convenient alley a few blocks away and sets up a mobile listening post. As he explains to her, he loses the moral gonna-get-me-killed high ground if someone _actually_ dies.)

 

 

Alec waits until after midnight to go back to Nate’s, just in case.

The good news is, he doesn’t get punched.

The _bad_ news is, apparently while he was gone Eliot forgave the team for the birthday madness and made a delicious no-hard-feelings dinner for everyone, of which there is nothing left but crumbs.

“Should’ve got here earlier, man,” Eliot says, slapping his back with enough force to _deliberately bruise_ , he _knows_ that Alec’s got delicate skin. “I made Black Russian Mousse Cake for dessert.”

Alec’s heart literally stutters. Eliot’s Black Russian Mousse Cake is the stuff _legends_ are made of. Alec has genuinely had erotic dreams about that particular dessert.

“What?” he asks, and blames the squeak in his voice on the _heart-crushing betrayal_ that not a single member of his team saved him a slice. “You said you were never gonna make it again!”

Last time he made it, things got a little…competitive over who deserved the last slice, and it all devolved into a prank war that ended up costing the team a few (hundred) thousand dollars in damages. Even Nate wavered over putting it on the banned list—it’s honestly _that_ delicious.

“Well.” Eliot gives him a malicious grin. “It is my birthday, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Leverage Thing-a-thon for existing, and to Mir for bribing me into signing up! This was a lot of fun!
> 
> It's probably very lame that, having been assigned the day before my birthday for posting, I chose to write a (not-)birthday related fic, but that's okay. I embrace my lameness. I hope you all enjoyed!


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